old themes, the uttering of half-dreams;
to have: lust as the fruit, or love as the bird
been thinking about prayers and how they don’t work
you are my favourite player,
you are my one and only
not really
I would sing you lullabies but you don’t like my voice,
I would bring you flowers but flowers only remind you of funerals.
I keep wanting to reinvent myself
then end up with too many versions
game plan, what’s my game plan
does there have to be a reason for everything?
do I have to explain why I gave my queen up
or why my engine can never start
later, later,
wanted to be some kind of electrifying
no ***** given, that sparks burn out
I’m not in a good place
I hate this place
here they stifle me everyday to save me
like I wasn’t already doomed from the start
got your gun cocked to my head
I’ve got my knife pressed to your throat
deadlock stalemate
wanna bet which one is faster
no regard whatsoever for consequences and responsibility just
living speed and risk and trauma
got me hook line and sinker
got you wrapped around my finger
thank you thank you thank you
of all the pieces on the board you’re my favourite pawn
*not really